Hidden Voices (Tess Schafer-Medium)

by Deborah Hughes

  Hidden Voices

  Deborah J Hughes

  Cover Art by:

  Anya Kelleye

  http://www.anyakelleye.com

  Cover Design by:

  WoolysWagon

  http://www.woolyswagon.com

  This book is a work of fiction except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form.

  WoolysWagon ePublishing

  www.woolyswagon.com

  Copyright © 2012 Deborah J Hughes

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13:978-1478398370

  ISBN-10:147839837X

  DEDICATION

  I want to dedicate this book to all the fans of Be Still, My Love. Your support and encouragement have helped immensely to cultivate a growing belief in myself concerning my writing talent. I've always wanted to be a writer but part of me feared what others would think of my work and that fear held me back for the longest time! Although I have my critics (and I don't begrudge them in the least!), I also have a growing fan base and it is to all of you that I extend my heartfelt THANKS!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many people are involved when it comes to getting a book ready for publication and though every single one of them are important, I have to give highlight to the few who really put forth the effort to help me with this endeavor. To Stephanie Foote, my editor, my supporter and my friend, THANK YOU! You certainly challenged me to make this story more credible as well as entertaining and I thank you for that. To another dear friend, Katrina Norwood, thank you, thank you! We've known each other for “ages” (no I shan't say how long!) and I've always admired your wit, humor and intelligence. Your critical approach to this story helped me see it from a different perspective and I thank you so much for your valuable help! To my daughter April Hughes, my mom Judy Patten, my dear friend Bonnie Smith and another dear friend Riquita Wagoner, thank you so much for being my critique group! Your enthusiasm for this story really helped my own enthusiasm and I really appreciate your wonderful and much-needed encouragement. I also must give credit to my friends and family for being the best support-group ever! Every writer needs “peeps” like you in their lives!! Once my talented daughter Carrie Hughes comes up with a logo for me, I'll have even more to be thankful for. Last but again, not least, I thank my publisher Robin Wolstenholme because without her, I wouldn't have any books to sign or sell!!!

  CHAPTER ONE

  As I entered the small town of Bucksport, Maine, a strange feeling filtered through me. I can only describe it as a sort of low-grade vibration charged with static. It made my blood hum with excitement and my skin tingle with heightened sensitivity. As I have never experienced anything like it before, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d just entered the equivalent of the Twilight Zone. To my way of thinking, this might be how it would feel. It was at once thrilling and uncomfortable. The Tri-State (the name I call the place where spirits dwell when between Heaven, Hell and earthly life) was all abuzz at my arrival. The spirits knew why I was here and a feeling of anticipation and expectation was buzzing through their ranks. I came to see the witch’s tombstone. Well, it wasn’t her tombstone but she supposedly made a curse and left her mark upon it. I intended to find out if there was any validity to the story.

  From the moment I heard of Bucksport’s famous legend, I couldn’t wait to investigate the area and see what the fuss was all about. Having just left another of Maine’s famous haunted places, it was quite exciting to now be entering another. Of course, Sea Willow Haven Resort may no longer be haunted, but that sure wasn’t the case when I first arrived there.

  As for the cursed tombstone, I first learned of it three weeks ago and I remember feeling a scatter of excitement race through me as I was told the story. It was as though a band of butterflies had suddenly hatched within me and were desperate for escape. That feeling could only mean one thing – there was some significance to the story. I just knew spirits were somehow involved with the matter.

  Now that I’d arrived, my suspicion was no longer in doubt. The hairs on the back of my neck rose and prickled as goose bumps broke out on my arms. Oh yes, I was in for it now. The air hummed silently with spiritual flutter and the world surrounding me waited in anticipation of my response.

  How, I wondered, did psychics and mediums live in a place like this? Surely they had to block or siphon the psychic noise in order to function? As for me, when spirit activity is roused, I can block things to some extent but I am not always completely successful. Right now, however, at this very moment in time, I was open and willing to allow communication with the other side. Frankly, I needed the distraction. Leaving Sea Willow Haven’s beautiful resort only a couple hours earlier had put me in a down mood. Although my stay there was just short of a month, I came to care very much for the owners Nancy and Jack McKeon. It wasn’t them, however, who were uppermost in my mind and tugging at my heart. I missed Kade. If I wanted to be truthful with myself, and I did, then I had to acknowledge the fact that I was well on my way to loving him. And that…loving another man…was something I thought would never happen to me again.

  When my husband Mike was killed by a drunk driver two years ago, it honestly felt as if my heart had been ripped from my chest. How could something like that ever be repaired? How did one get over the loss of someone they loved as much as I loved Mike? To compound my despair was the ever present bitterness over the whole sorry mess. On top of all that, as if I didn’t have enough to contend with, it seemed my very negative emotions and constant heartache interfered with my ability to communicate with the dead. After reuniting many people with loved ones lost to spirit, I could not do the same for myself. It was quite disheartening. I know now it was the negative emotions, the roiling anger, that created the blockage. Anger, I believe, creates a dark barrier to the soul. It is hard to see into the light of spirit when one is cloaked as densely as I was.

  After my therapist suggested I take a vacation and my friends convinced me to give Sea Willow Haven a try, I finally began the healing process so long overdue. From the moment I entered the state of Maine, I could physically feel my troublesome anger and constant pain dissipate. The crushing weight of sorrow began to lift. Oh, I would always miss Mike and regret my loss, but I was finally at a point in my life where I could accept it. He was in spirit now and happy to be there. He passed from this life because his soul was ready to go and it was that fact which upset me so much at first.

  You see, my belief is firm that we do, in fact, have final say over the matter of our physical termination. Even in cases of sudden death like Mike's. It isn't a conscious decision, of course, for we are born with a strong will to live. No, the passing into spirit is a decision our soul makes despite the conscious will to live. It was worry over this belief that caused me so much despair because I found it hard to believe that Mike would make a decision like that when he was so content with his life. He was happy here, why leave? I truly struggled with my faith on the matter. Once I accepted that his death occurred because his soul knew it was time to move on, I then had to deal with my anger at his making that decision.

  How could he do that to me? I was only twenty-three years old when he made me a widow. How fair was that? As if it wasn’t bad enough to lose my husband, I also lost my dog Tootsie. Even now my heart twisted as I thought of that sweet, loyal and loving Cocker Spaniel. In one fell swoop, a huge hole was gouged into my heart. I went through the loneliest, blackest period of my life and I never want to
experience anything like that again. Ever.

  Thank God for my friends Marly and Fran. Either one or the other was constantly with me those first few mind-numbing days. And they’d remained frequent companions ever since. Especially Marly. Her husband was a firefighter and worked long shifts at the fire station. On the nights he was there, she was often with me. I don’t think I could have gotten through the past two years without her.

  I went to Sea Willow Haven because an article in the Down East magazine reported it as being haunted. Spurred on by my friends and intrigued despite myself, I had to go check it out. The lure of ghostly inhabitants wasn’t the only thing that called to me, however, for its location was just as enticing. A resort right on the coast of Maine? What was there to say no to? I loved the ocean and I had never been to Maine. Strange that, considering I was born and raised in Upstate New York and thus, only a day’s ride away. It is lucky for me that Nancy and Jack McKeon, the resort’s owners, are such great people. I developed a friendship with Nancy right from the start and with Jack soon after.

  It was Kade, however, who made the most impact on my life. My heart began a heavy pounding as I let thoughts of him roam through my mind and fill my psyche. Impossible as it was for me to believe, I felt the tug of attraction the moment I laid eyes on him. Those feelings seemed a betrayal to Mike and I fought them pretty hard. Not that it mattered. When you meet someone you are meant to be with, the pull to be with them is often too much to resist. Besides, Kade and I had a little help in the development of our friendship. The spirits there used him to communicate with me. A gifted artist of landscape scenes, ones in which he puts his own flare of inspiration, Kade unconsciously drew something he hadn’t intended to draw. In fact, he hadn’t even realized what he’d done until examining the drawing later in the day. Before we knew it, we were both immersed in an investigation of Sea Willow’s ghosts.

  An ex-Marine and sole survivor of a roadside bomb explosion, Kade had some serious issues to wrestle with just like me. It was only natural that we would end up commiserating together and getting emotionally close during the process.

  Although I wasn’t ready to make a commitment, I left him this morning with a promise to stay in touch. It was his intention to rent his seaside cottage for the entire summer. That meant he had a couple more months there at the least. An enviable situation to be sure. Besides, Kade’s paintings were gaining notoriety and respect among the art world and he was quite busy getting ready for a show at one of Portland, Maine’s premier art galleries. He wasn’t free to drop everything and chase after me. I understood that, I really did, but I missed him. For the past three weeks I saw him every day and now I was expected to go through future days without that pleasure. It was going to be very hard. Luckily, Bucksport was only an hour and a half drive from Poke Harbor and he promised to come see me…hopefully by Wednesday.

  I planned a week in Bucksport with the option to stay longer if it turned out that I needed more time. Meaning, of course, that I would stay if the spirit world had need of me. Nancy was kind enough to secure a reservation for me at a Bed & Breakfast right in town. It was owned by a friend of hers. And, as luck would have it, not far from the cemetery where the infamous tombstone was located.

  It was Monday and late morning. Traffic was minimal but steady, the sky dismal with a promise of imminent rain. A fitting atmosphere for a graveyard visit to be sure. Were this a movie, the scene was aptly set. I could even imagine the music building to an eerie crescendo as I neared the graveyard which I now saw ahead on my right. I slowed the car as I neared and felt a chill chase down my spine. A steady spread of cold moved through my veins and I knew then and there I was probably going to be staying longer than a week. Kade would be happy to hear that. And honestly, so was I.

  I saw the tombstone in question immediately. It was the largest one in the graveyard, quite close to the front and facing the street on which I traveled. It commanded authority and respect, leaving no doubt as to the importance of the person to whom it was dedicated.

  I slowed to a crawl as I passed and saw the image of the leg without any difficulty. Excited, apprehensive and impatient, I turned onto the side street next to the graveyard then into a small parking area. My heart pounded loudly in my ears and the fissure of unease that accompanied my excitement gave me pause. I needed to calm down, mentally protect myself and check this thing out.

  Drawing in a slow breath, I closed my eyes and willed myself into calm. I pictured a bright light surrounding me (God’s protective light is how I explained it to others) and the security that gave me made the tension ease away. Whatever mystery surrounded that tombstone, it wasn’t going to bring any harm to me. Of that I could be sure. Sheila, my spirit guide, was once again with me (having been silent during my two-year grieving stint) and I knew she would help keep me safe. I just needed to ensure that I stayed open to her subtle warnings. Why spirits couldn’t be more forthcoming and clear on their messages, I have no idea. Subtlety was a major talent for those residing in the spirit world. One of the most important things I could do as a medium was stay aware and in touch with my feelings.

  Once I felt in control of my emotions, I stepped out of the car, grabbed my lightweight jacket and slipped it on. It wasn’t raining yet but it was going to start at any moment.

  The small graveyard was surrounded by a black wrought iron fence and was closed to the public. No matter. The gravestone in question was easy enough to see. A cement walkway led from the parking area to its main attraction. A few steps and I was there, standing directly in front of Jonathan Buck’s infamous stone monument. Many people thought it was his gravestone but he was actually buried a few feet behind it. His wife right next to him. Two thin headstone tablets, their engravings faded with time, marked their resting places.

  Buck’s monument, however, was an impressive monolith. Made from a large granite rock, it had a square base that rose high into an obelisk shape. It was on the square base and right under the Buck name that the image was located…the supposed witch’s foot. It was a dark outline in the shape of a leg from below the knee down, just like the stories described. The image was prominent and unmistakable. The thing practically demanded notice. Though there was no definite explanation for its sudden appearance, I could well imagine why it inspired so many bizarre stories.

  The legends were somewhat varied but the gist of them was this: Bucksport’s founder Jonathan Buck (for whom the town of Bucksport was named) supposedly condemned a witch to death and she in turn cursed him for all eternity. Some stories said she even cursed the entire town! Other stories were more gruesome and not worth mentioning for I did not believe them to have any merit. As I understood it, the image appeared soon after the monument was put in place. The dismayed family (it was his grandchildren who commissioned the monument) had it replaced …supposedly three times. There was not, however, any record of these replacements actually happening. Still, the stories persisted. And no wonder. The image was very clear and of a definite recognizable shape. Even I had to wonder at its appearance. The fact it existed meant there had to be a reason, a purpose, for its existence. Things don’t just happen without purpose - everything happens for a reason. So what was the reason for this particular image to appear and trigger all the supernatural controversy? Though I wanted to stand there and study it with a clear and quiet mind, my thoughts would not be still. Instead of waiting to see if anything would come to me, from ‘beyond’ or wherever, I tried to reason out the purpose on my own. In the end, all I did was repeat the questions over and over in my head. What did it mean? Why was it there? Why that particular image?

  My eyes went up toward the top of the obelisk where another stone defect marred its smooth gray surface. This one in the shape of a heart lying on its side. How odd for two oxidized stains to appear in such recognizable shapes on the same piece of stone. No wonder there were so many stories floating around to explain the anomalies. Some of the stories even suggested that Jonathan Buck, a married man an
d the father of several children, had an affair with a witch and when she became pregnant and threatened to expose their affair, he had her condemned for witchcraft and burned at the stake.

  I could find no record of witches being put to death in Maine. That didn’t mean they didn’t happen, though. Heavens no. So what was the story here? Why those particular images on this particular monument? And here I was, back to the same questions, again.

  A chill raced through me and the top of my head prickled with an odd vibration. Wondering at this unusual feeling, I stood as still as possible and waited to see what else might happen. A wind kicked up and my long hair, which was tied back in a loose ponytail, pulled free. The long annoying strands blew across my eyes and into my mouth. I tried to capture the wayward locks and secure them again but the wind grew stronger and made the task a fruitless one. I finally abandoned the effort and dropped my arms to my side. I closed my eyes and as soon as I did so, it felt as though I was suddenly someone else. Someone taller, with hair even longer than mine, though dark, almost black really, and very straight. My hair was dirty blond and thick with natural waves. It was too curly for my liking when short so I let it grow out. But the hair I now felt on my head was no longer my own. It was so much lighter and fluttered gently, like wisps of silk, in the breeze. It also felt black. Strange, that. Feeling a color. But there it was. The preoccupation with my hair was soon circumvented by a sudden pang of regret which stabbed like a sharp piercing pain into my heart. It was a feeling I could relate to quite well. I’d felt it often enough over the past couple years. Tears sprang into my eyes and I had to fight the urge to throw myself at the ground and sob in despair. What in the world was going on here?